


A Gardener's Birthday

by AngieW



Series: The Starrison Universe [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Also the sappiest story you've ever read I swear, Angst, Birthday, Flashbacks, Fluff, George is a big teaser, He is way too stressed, Hurt/Comfort, John is not really there, Lots of feelings and hugs and kisses, M/M, Mainly starrison, Paul is a big shipper, Romance, They are all adorable grandpas, This is a sappy starrison story through times and space, With the sappiest ending ever, and adorable teens, and also really cute, ringo is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23563291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngieW/pseuds/AngieW
Summary: "Head in hands, he wondered. What was he going to do? His brain couldn't work out any good ideas. Ringo felt so scared of disappointing his love. The special, precious gift, that could, maybe, if he succeeded, be a turning point in their relationship, and a good one, simply remained unknown. He stayed there and lost himself in defeated thoughts.What would he offer George?"In February 1988, Ringo looks back on his ever changing relationship with George (both the ups and downs) to find himself the most perfect present for his lover's 45 birthday.He has three weeks to find one.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Series: The Starrison Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2170338
Comments: 26
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deeblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deeblue/gifts).



> Sooo, usually I only comments on fics. But this is a special occasion. Here is a fic that I had written for Dee's birthday, some time ago, and she was nice and said that we could share it! It's already finished, but to make reading easier, I'll post it in three chapters. The next one will be tomorrow, so if you liked it stay tuned (also chapter 2 is my favorite lol)  
> Anyway I hope it's not too confusing, as I'm not English and there might some basic mistakes. And I hope you will enjoy the story.  
> It's a big starrison story, that will make you feel a lot in each parts.

* * *

_A Sunflower: Symbol of adoration and dedication. It holds the meaning of dedicated love..._

* * *

##  **_1st February 1988_ **

It was in three weeks. 

Thursday, 24th, February 1988. It was in three weeks. 

George’s birthday was in three weeks. 

And Ringo was nervous. 

He had the date circled on his calendar since they were back on good terms. But under the circle was written “ _BOYFRIEND’S BIRTHDAY_ ” with a yellow feltpen and a lil sun sketched next to it since a few months. Before it was just a circle, the date of a friend’s birthday; a dear friend. But now it was much more, and Ringo couldn’t help smiling at the way the sketch had been so hastily done, and how the usual normal sketched circle had been done over and over again in a bright happy yellow. He remembered how when he bought the calendar in December, it was the first thing he had done; flipping the pages to February, and circling that date over and over again; you could even see the faded lines pointing to the day, the special day. 

He still could remember with a fond smile when this day changed, when it went from a simple best friend’s birthday, to the day of his lover’s birthday. It wasn’t so long ago after all, and it was something George loved to remind him since then. Only mere months had passed since they had found their love again; now they were both feeling like teenagers in love, just like in the past; yet more mature, more calm and tender than before. 

Ringo hummed softly as he took his teacup and walked toward the table on his balcony, opening on his small garden full of life and colors, the early morning sun covering the grass of a softer green tone. He sat, and as he did so he realized he had been humming “When We Was Fab” all along. He giggled, and shook his head. Was he so desperately in love now? Was he gonna think of this song whenever he thought of that day? 

But he didn’t mind it. He could remember it over and over again if it made him feel so warm and happy inside. 

***

##  **_August 1987_ **

_They were both at Friar Park, George’s house, recording overdubs for his next finished album; Cloud 9 it was going to be called. It was such a funky name, Ringo absolutely loved it, and sitting across his friend, who was playing sitar at a low and calm level, Ringo couldn't be more grateful for having his friend back with him. They had had a fallout in the past, but now they were back to being friends at least, and Ringo was content with that. It had taken time, but they were on good terms again. And if he doubted it, the fact that George had invited him to participate on this album, and that for the overdubs George had called him, and only him to finish them, were proof enough for Ringo. Sure, sometimes he missed the love they had shared; but it was better than nothing. How had he despised and hated that time of nothing!_

_They were alone. They had been alone for a week now. Dhani was supposed to stay at Olivia’s place this month for the summer holidays, and George hadn’t dated anyone since his divorce in January 1987, just before the beginning of the recording of Cloud 9. He remembered how he had gotten George on the phone that day, announcing he was working on a new album after five years of silence, that he proposed to him to play on some songs on it, and in the middle had dropped a nonchalant “oh i divorced Olivia”, which had left Ringo in utter disbelief; the casual tone was way too disturbing compared to his own broken and whimpering voice when he announced his own divorce a year before. But his friend had been happier since then. Warmer. And music had them bond all over again. Ringo wasn’t going to complain, if it had brought them both closer than before. But sometimes he still wondered why his friend had never been sad about it, or had never talked to him about it._

_A small curse echoed in the serene atmosphere and Ringo quickly turned his head to the cross-legged George, tuning his strings all over again. Ringo quietly chuckled at the action that was so usual from George. Would he ever get satisfied of his tuning? It seemed more likely never._

_George glanced up, then swiftly went back to bury his face in his sitar. He seemed so nervous. Now that Ringo thought of it, George had been nervous all week; whenever they stared at each other too long, George would turn his face away and stammer a bit; when they were laughing together, George would rest his arm on his shoulders, or find another way to touch him. He seemed to also have many auditions problems for he never seemed to hear what Ringo had to say, till he repeated it right next to his ear, lips almost brushing it. But what was the strangest thing about George lately, was this sort of nostalgic trip he had started. All the week, he had always talked of memories of their Beatles years, then through the seventies and eighties, of course always avoiding the year of 1975. Especially memories they build together, only George and Ringo. And if there was one thing Ringo knew, is that George usually avoided talking about the past, as it always brought bad memories to him. So hearing him talk with a fond smile of the time they had snuck away during the filming of A Hard Day's Night to have a date in a park, or laughing at the memory or the face Ringo had made when he realized in embarrassment that he had brought George to a German cinema, with German movies, when they did not understand a word of German, for their date in Hamburg, was a nice, but disturbing surprise. And he couldn't help but think that all those strange actions must have been hidding something, that George had something to tell him; and as George's legs kept moving rapidly on his seat and he kept fidgeting, it only became clearer he was nervous. Ringo only hoped what George had to say wasn't some bad news; he shuddered as he suddenly thought that George would announce him he had some incurable disease or something. May it not be that please._

_His thoughts were stopped as George called his name. He jolted. He had been so caught up in his head again that he didn't even notice George resting his sitar on the wall and staring at him. He seemed to swallow his nervousness, and focus on him and only him; his hands were shaking with the impending truth that was going to come out of the clutch of his mind. That was it, wasn't it? They were discovering so many diseases nowadays…_

_"You know, Ringo, the song…"_

_Ringo looked at him in middle surprise. The song? Was he avoiding it now? The drummer started fidgeting too on his seat, against all his best wishes, the tone of George's voice so shy and hesitant; so different to the serene and calm one that would touch his ears in better times. George was in distress, so Ringo decided to help him a bit._

_"The song "When We Was Fab"? It's a great song. I love it George," he watched the guitarist for a reaction, but he only looked away and nodded. So Ringo kept going. He never really liked the silence. "I like it, the fab bit. It's nice to remember how good and happy we were. The Beatles were always fab, and I'm glad you’re remembering that."_

_George smiled, if you could call a small quirk up of the lips followed by a small quiver a smile._

_"Well, I wasn't really talking about the Beatles when I used ‘fab’."_

_"Oh?"_

_Ringo saw George looking at everywhere but him. The poor lad was really nervous, and it was so unsettling. He hadn’t seem that nervous since.... oh._

_Since they had been together._

_And as Ringo’s eyes widened, two hands suddenly gripped his and George was crouching down to be at eyes-level with him. He took a deep breath and his brows were set in determination._

_“Ringo. I was referring to us.”_

_No more words followed his declaration. George took it as his cue to continue. In all honesty Ringo’s brain had shut down and no rational thoughts could reach his head; the soft strokes of George’s thumb on his knuckles weren’t helping at all._

_“I’ve been… remembering how happy we were together lately. We were so at peace. And-and I missed those memories...” he froze, then shook his head and smiled as he watched their hands. “But before, we were always together. Always supporting each other; I think without you I wouldn’t have made it to where I am now.”_

_“Don’t say that George, you would have,” Ringo tried to interfere, his eyes also fixed on the slow relaxing motion of George’s hands as in a trance._

_“No it’s not true,” he gave his hands a squeeze. “I’ve been remembering everything you did for me, and all the love you had for me. And all the love I had for you. Weren’t we fab, Ringo?”_

_Ringo let out a small chuckle. They had been fab, it was true._

_George seemed to crouch even closer, and Ringo’s gaze fell on his eyes; they held such a warm glint, and Ringo’s heart skipped a beat. Suddenly he was back in 1981 at the doorway of George’s house, trying to refrain himself from tackling George into a hug for having mended together the pieces of their lost friendship; he was back in 1968 when he had come back to Abbey Road and kissed George with so much love as he saw his drum set covered in flowers; he was back in 1962 when he accepted to join his boyfriend’s band; he finally stopped in 1961 when the older, scarier and stronger drummer asked him on a date, and the skinny, small, young guitarist had answered “yes”. He was 41, 28, 22 and 21 again; George was 38, 25, 19, and 18 again. Each time, the younger skinny boy had had that warm, happy, loving glow in his eyes. And each time, Ringo had been in love._

_This time was no different._

_“Ringo, those memories, they- you know they reminded me that… Ringo I,” he was slowly getting nervous again, he could see it with how his hands were shaking and his brows were furrowed; Ringo wasn’t anymore; Ringo was falling in love again with the now older man, that hadn’t changed much from the small boy he had dated in the 60’s and 70’s._

_George huffed in frustration, looking at the ceiling, then back at him._

_“All the moments we shared… I remember them so well. And I loved you so much … But-But, Ringo…All of this reminded me that- Well I… Ringo-"_

_“It’s ok George,” he wanted to help his poor struggling boy. Now that he knew everything was alright, no, even more than alright. “I understand you-”_

_“I’ve never stopped loving you Ritch.”_

_And God if George weren’t holding his hands so tightly at that moment he would have fallen off his chair. Even though he knew where was George going with this talk, it still made his heart beat as loud as his drums, and he felt like he was flying on cloud 9. Was it what George meant when he named his album?_

_Truly he was glad that George was supporting him right now. As he blinked, he noticed he must have drifted off; George had gotten even closer to him if that was possible, and he was staring at him with so much fear in his eyes. Ringo had to ground himself before he could reply to him; he thought his heart was going to explode. Since how long had he felt so much love?_

_“R-Ritchie?”_

_George was still staring at him and waiting, and Ringo was grateful for that. But his voice had gotten so soft and small._

_Ringo finally allowed himself to crack a smile, and rested his forehead on George’s, his hands moved out of their painful grip to cradle his face, while George’s hands fell flat on his thighs. He gazed at his love’s eyes and tried to show all the warmth and reassurance he could muster, and stroked his cheek. In a second, George’s face melted into a grin, his small fangs peeking out, his eyes sparkling; he had understood. He didn’t need to say anything; George knew he felt the same, and everything was alright. His arms were shaking, and they were about to circle him, Ringo felt it. But he had something to do before he let him do that._

_“And I’ve never stopped loving you too George.”_

_He chuckled as he watched his face froze and flush, just like he had a minute ago; when George realized that, he was throwing his head back, Ringo’s hands still cradling it; he laughed heartily, snorting a bit; his own hands flew to lie on his; the corners of his eyes crinkled. They were in love again, like they had been in the past, as if the years never passed since 1961, and they were two shy boys in the cramped city of Liverpool and too full of love. It didn’t even cross his mind that they were now much older, and therefore supposedly wiser and calmer; he was laughing too much for his mind to notice. His thoughts were only centered on one boy and one boy only; it was this man in front of him, with his greyish hair still greased back up, and small happy wrinkles around his mouth, in his silky orange baggy pants and his linen top, his nose scrunching up in mirth, and looking at him with so much love and adoration._

_As they quieted down into a nice comfortable silence, they couldn’t stop looking at each other._

_And it was alright again._

_***_

He didn’t know if they actually kissed that night or just curled up together in bed and slept. He just remembered that the next morning while they were eating breakfast George had slapped his toast on the table and had blurted out something like “wait does that mean we’re dating again?” which made them erupt in laughter a second time. 

And Ringo had answered yes.

Months had passed since then; they had been together, seeing each other as much as they could; not daring to go too far; not quite believing it was real; simply taking the time; knowing to savour their love for once in quiet. Sometimes as he laid down alone in bed at night, he wanted to shake things off a bit, call the love of his life, ask him to live forever with him; anywhere, everywhere, at a lost bar of the lost Hamburg nights, at rich and green Friar Park; the thought stuck in his head until he noticed the sun was up and it was too late to call; as the thought was still too obscure, too far, to be as real as the light. 

They had to take things slow. As youthful as he felt with this refound love, he couldn't forget that his age asked of him to be more reflective and thoughtful in love; three failed relationships were enough proofs he hadn't been. Even though one of them was perhaps going to work out in the end, he was in no hurry to know.

As he sipped his tea, he couldn't quench his desire to try at least, to take one step forward in their relationship; he knew how. Well not totally. He had a feeling this birthday coming up could help; he just had to seize this chance. It would be the first of many other George's birthday they would spend together, if he succeeded to find something: but what could you offer to one of the richest men of England? Who could already have so much, and yet needed so few?

He finished his cup in one gulp and got up. He had 24 days to find something. Or was it 25? Had he more time? Why did George never managed to give him a clear date of his birthday! He'd find something, and on the 24 at night, he'd be the first lad in England, ready with a gift, and his love, to wish George Harrison a happy birthday. 

*** 

##  **_6th February 1988_ **

To say Ringo had no idea was an understatement: he was absolutely clueless. His love was going to turn 45, it wasn't nothing. What special present could you offer to a 45 years old rich guitarist? There was absolutely nothing coming to his mind and it was frustrating; Ringo had to find something, he had to! If he wanted their relation to move forward, it had to be an especially good birthday; George had planned to spend it alone, he hadn't deemed the day special enough to be celebrated yet. He had not talked of any birthday plan yet. This was going to change.

After going through his morning routine, which was getting up, showering, checking the calendar, putting on the radio, then going to the porch to drink his cup of tea, he looked outside: it was sunny again; with an oversized wool coat his body could stand it. Days were slow lately. Nothing to record, nothing to film; just friends and family. If he usually enjoyed lazy days, they also offered him plenty of time to think; his mind needed it but refused it. The dreaded thought he had nothing to offer but a hug and a kiss, was depressing Ringo, and when that happened he always drifted to… bad solutions. 

Shaking himself off he slammed his teacup on the table then went back in, turning off his radio on the way. 

The yellow living room was lighted with a warm red and orange glow thanks to the sun passing through the curtains. He had a nice spacious place with his couch taking most of the space, his tv right in front of it, and all his family and friends photographs he took over the years spread on the walls. He strode to the other side of the room where brown boxes laid on the floor next to his old red record player, crouched on his legs and rummaged through the albums; songs might help him find a solution, it always inspired him.

He went through albums and singles, all not classified, but with a precise order only understandable to Ringo. It was all about moods: there were vinyls full of happy songs, records filled with melancholy and sadness, some country singles, and his most important ones, mixing calmness and joy; but with a deep underlying soothness only achieved by old friends. The last section was his favorite; how could he not love it? This whole box of warmth and love. It had to help him find a gift for George; where else would he look if not? 

He stumbled upon one of his most prized possessions. His light touches had almost missed it, with how fast he was going through the titles; he grazed it, feeling the rough border worn out by years and places, and the countless times his hands had firmly grasped it and manipulated it. In a swift movement, it was out of the box and back on his lap, after he sat down, knowing he was in for another memory ride. The colors had not faded one bit; the rich blue and the foggy white around his lover’s face were as vibrant as before; his eyes, pure black pools in the paleness of his face, and his hair blending with the grey stormy Britain. It was “Somewhere In England”; an unlimited edition, just for him; just for Ringo. Not only the cover was the original one, refused by Warner Bros, and not the dull one that didn’t bring to light the mysterious and unfathomable aura of his love; it was also signed, and noted by George. A small smiling sun drawing at the bottom of the front cover, winked at him. 

He took the disc, got up, and set the record player. As the music slowly spread through the room, Ringo limped to the couch and laid down, still grasping the folder, and closed his eyes. Then he drifted to his memory of the time George offered it to him; it did not offend his thoughts or his mind, as the music just like fleeting flashes lulled him to that emotional, yet fulfilling moment of his life; his brain did not protest and let him wander into the past, like a comforting blanket of happy times. Who knows, remembering how they became the best of friends again, might help him with his quest. 

***

##  **_May 1981_ **

_He was knocking on George’s door at Friar Park on a quiet rainy evening in May. He had driven an hour to reach him after George had given him a hurried call at noon, urging him to come to his house; he had something to offer him, something important; he also had to talk to him. Even if they had been getting along again these last few months, it was still awkward; especially when they had no songs to work on: earlier, around November, they had worked on some songs together, but once they were done, the air had gotten so thick and uneasy, Ringo only wanted to run. And since… that day, they hadn’t really talked much. Which was why it was so intriguing to get such an urgent call. It was GEORGE, the lad never called without a good reason. So when the door opened to reveal a guarded and shaky George, he knew it must have been important._

_He was ushered through the door, inside the living room, and asked to sit, George throwing a cautious “Olivia isn’t home” before fetching the boiling kettle in the kitchen. Ringo lowered himself on the couch, two teacups in front of him on the table, with a rectangular shaped plastic bag next to it. Then George was back, serving the tea and joining him close on the couch, their hips touching. They both stayed in silence for awhile, sipping their warm drinks, George looking at the floor, his hand not holding the cup but clasped between his thighs, Ringo looking around, humming once or twice. They hadn’t chatted more than the few greetings exchanged at the door, and the room was beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable. What was George expecting? A casual chat? They hadn’t had one in years; since they broke up. He loved the lad, really; but there was still this barrier between them, that never seemed to break, and that never was talked about. Because of the pain. Sitting there, in silence and discomfort, was only proving this. He wished he had kept his wool coat on; the air was getting colder._

_Then George cleared his throat. His eyes never left the floor. But Ringo’s turned to him._

_“I… I wanted to apologize Ringo.”_

_His eyebrows rose. Well he did not expect that._

_“What for?”_

_“For… for a lot actually. For never having apologized before about what I did to you. I-I’m sorry I ruined our relationship.”_

_Ringo was frozen. He couldn't believe his ears. Never in his life had he heard George apologize, never had he thought it would be about this. George was never the past dweller: the odds he would be the one to try and heal their friendship were too low, and too impossible. So he stayed there, with his mouth agape, eyes blinking once or twice, till he shook his head with a chuckle of disbelief._

_"Are you serious about this?"_

_"I am," he said, a sigh escaping him. "I did horrible things to you. I've left you down. From the 1970s to 1975-"_

_"Yes when you cheated on me with my wife," he couldn't stop his mouth from spewing these words at George, who winced at that. He regretted it instantly. It wasn't really that the problem. Ringo had just felt… alone._

_"Yes, that. I'm sorry. I was an ass. I know what happened after, what you became…" Ringo's body shivered. He absolutely did not want to talk about his alcoholism problem. Only now was he beginning to fight it; the pain and sadness it caused were too great. George, though, didn't have to blame himself for that; a pile of problems had caused it; mainly Ringo himself. He quickly changed the subject. "Let's not talk about that, it's not your fault. I've let myself fall."_

_"But I could have helped. And, I didn't. I worsened it. Ringo… I'm sorry."_

_It was a small word, a little, tiny, meaningless word, said so many times it had become insignificant; but it echoed through the room and the silence it left was solemn and dead. It had gotten cold again; more than before. George's small squeaking sounds weren't interrupting the room's rest anymore. Ringo should have kept his coat; to stay warm, or to be ready to leave._

_"Why now?" George then finally turned his head to meet his eyes. So Ringo turned his to the floor._

_"Why, after all those years, now? What are you trying to do? I don't understand," he didn't notice he was up, his voice, harsh, his words, jumbled. He didn't notice anything but his building incomprehension. "What's your point of apologizing now? You never felt sorry! We never talked about this, we just, got along again. As if it never happened. So, why now, why care now?I don't get it George-"_

_"Ringo," George was up too, at his side, grounding him. His voice, still low and small, stopped his incessant rambling, and he moved to grab his wrists. Suddenly he was facing him; suddenly the atmosphere shifted; suddenly George's mask seemed to crack;despair took over him, and Ringo swore the intensity of the moment slapped him so hard he felt dizzy with its strength. George's lips opened and everything felt surreal._

_"Before it's too late. I don't want to miss the chance to fix our relationship. I missed it with him."_

_And Ringo knew. He knew what pushed George to apologize and seek his forgiveness. Regrets were radiating from him, his body was slumped, shoulders hunched, head down, in defeat. He was trembling; Ringo's hands gripped George's wrists back. He slightly crouched to try to see his eyes; they were wet. Dropping his anger he softened his tone and his expression._

_"George…"_

_Then George, looked at him: he was broken. He was shaking from his legs to his lips. Ringo's heart broke._

_"He died, Ritchie," a sob escaped him, just like his old nickname. He took a shaky breath. "We could never fix our friendship. W-we will never… He died, without letting me apologize!"_

_At this point, tears started to fall freely from his glistening eyes. His voice became hoarse._

_"I-I don't want this to happen to us Ringo… I don't want to lose you before I get to apologize, and be friends –real friends– with you again. And I- gosh, I-I'm sorry Ringo-"_

_And George was sobbing, heavily. Ringo wrapped his arms around his taller form and dragged him to his smaller body. George didn't hesitate one moment and buried his head in the crook of his neck and his hands gripped Ringo's arms so tight they kept on twitching. They rocked from one foot to the other. Ringo tried to shush his cries, but to no avail as he was fighting his own tears from overwhelming him. It was hard, oh how hard it was! He did not yet grieve John's death –God John!– and he never would; George too; Paul too; but George would never get to be on friendly terms with him again, and the weight of it all finally seemed to break him. His heart clenched. He couldn't start crying too, not when George needed him._

_That's when George was mumbling again._

_"I-I miss him. And, I miss Paul. And I miss you Ritchie. I don't wanna lose you like I lost John," another broken sob as he said his name, "I-"_

_"You won't," Ringo stopped him, pushing him away so he could look at him. As he gazed up at the sorrow in George's big open eyes, he repeated firmly. "You won't, George. I'm here."_

_There was a brief pause, where time froze, and George's tears seemed to no longer drop. A short moment where they only looked at each other, and nothing else. George was scrutinizing him, looking for any trace of lies; Ringo opened himself to his inspection, his raw emotions vivid to his eyes. It was quiet. It was short. It was important. Then something seemed to snap._

_"I missed you Ringo."_

_Then his voice cracked, then tears flooded his eyes, then his arms circled Ringo's body, then drew him to his chest, and cried in his shoulder again, but this time it was closer, tighter, and better, than anything they ever needed. Ringo, trapped in his hold, pressed his face to his shirt, and shed his own tears in unison with George. They cried for John, for regrets, for time they lost, and will never get. Together, and no more alone; in this hold they opened their wounds, and they healed._

_He didn't know how long they cried, nor did he know when they ended up on the couch, sitting close together, with him leaning onto George's side, his head buried in his neck, still hugging him, while George's hand was lightly brushing his hair, talking of the past; he did not know, yet did not care. The only thing important to know was that, for the first time in years, he did not feel awkward around George, but at ease, as it was before. They had stayed connected, even when their cries subsided, or when they fell into silence. A feeling of fulfillment settled in Ringo's heart, and he was overcome by such a relieving warmth, one that he didn't know he could have again. The steady rise and fall of George's chest almost lulled him to sleep, till the clock rang, and he saw that it was time to leave. It went so fast._

_With a disheartening sigh, he straightened himself and moved from his comfortable lay, George following suit._

_"I… I have to go. Barbara's waiting for me back at home."_

_"Oh, yeah. Sure."_

_He gave George's knee a friendly pat and got up, with a quick chuckle._

_"Quite the emotional talk for two Northern men right?"_

_George didn't chuckle with him. Shrugging, he turned his back, about to fetch his coat, when he felt a warm hand gripping his again. He glanced back to George's puffy red eyes. The slim man fidgeted a bit before asking._

_"Does that mean you forgive me? Are we ok?"_

_Ringo froze a second. Wasn't it obvious? So he hummed, acting as if he wasn't sure, and taking such a ridiculous pose it made George giggle wholeheartedly –finally really laughing– at his silliness. They were both grinning, and Ringo squeezed his hand back._

_"Of course we are. I forgive you George."_

_George let him go._

_Coat in hands, George got up to join him at the entrance. They stood in the doorway. About to speak one last time, George shouted a strangled "WAIT!"; then he stood alone in the doorway. George had practically ran away to the living room, arms flying around him in weird directions, and it would have been almost comical, if he wasn't so dumbfounded about this sudden departure. Waiting… In a minute he was striding to him, shoving a plastic bag to his face, and Ringo recognized it as the rectangular shaped bag he had seen on the table, before their talk; he had dismissed it as irrelevant. He took it, glanced at George in permission to open; George quickly nodded, his disheveled hair bobbing up in the air. With steady movements, he picked the shape out of the bag: it was a vinyl._

_The title stood proud in white lettering: "Somewhere In England": an album he knew, since he had worked on several songs with George on it, and had even helped him change some lyrics for "All Those Years Ago"; but they had remained professional and awkward during the whole recording. But the cover was different; it wasn't the new one he had been shown; it was the first one,the blue foggy cover with George's pale face shining on it. There were writings; lots of writing. "FOR RINGO" was engraved on top of the album, and down in a corner was a small smiling sun drawing, with the song "here comes the sun" next to it, and small flowers sketched dancing around the lyrics. It was one of their songs. When he turned it, instead of the usual song list, was a message in black, in George's sharp and neat handwriting; it was a text of peace, love, wishings, and thanks; hopeful yet not sad, honest yet not harsh, caring yet not heartbreaking; but he did feel the tears again when he read "Thank you Ringo" and giggle at the "Hare Krishna!". And Ringo couldn't believe he was holding such a healing gift._

_He looked up and he was grinning so hard he could light the whole room. George hadn't just offered him a simple disk; it was a unique one, for only him, one they worked on a lot together, and one that led to this exact moment; where they healed. It was for today. For him._

_George grinned back. A strong pull tried to push Ringo to jump into the guitarist's arms again and press him to his heart, but he refrained himself. He stayed put, eyes shining with joy and gratefulness. What stopped him, he didn't know, nor did he know what stopped George –he seemed to be in the same urge as Ringo– but they stood awkwardly, smiling at each other, happy. It was a good awkward. They were healed and well._

_"Thank you, George."_

_He wanted to thank him for so much more._

_"You're welcome, Ritchie."_

_***_

The last song came to its end; the picking of the guitars and George's atonal voice drifted and faded away, until the disk was no longer turning, and Ringo was out of his memory. Long sigh. One blink. A second one. He rubbed his eyes and sat up; they were wet. Just like they had been in his memory. He could taste the remaining salty tears on his lips. 

He stretched himself; his muscles were stiff as if he had awoken from a deep slumber; he must have gone too far in his mind. Getting up, he walked to his record player to put away the disc. Then he got stopped by the cover. Could he do something like that? Could he give a unique and personal record to George as a birthday gift? He went through all his records, his own songs and albums. But the pace of his hands gradually slowed down; they entirely stopped as he was filled with doubts; his albums weren't as good as George's. It wouldn't be a gift as good as George. It would be just recycling an old record, but with a pretty cover. Nothing else. And there was no way he could make a new album in less than– oh God, he only had less than 20 days left!– this was impossible. Giving up on his own records; he could still do it with another record maybe? He went through his other records; all the titles, all the songs, all the covers; Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Eric Clapton; in vain. Giving up again. He dropped on the floor, laid on the cold smooth parquet. It was pointless. As much as he decorated the cover, wrote lovely messages and coated it with funny drawings, it wouldn't be unique; it wouldn't be personalized; it wouldn't be enough for his love. 

Head in hands, he wondered. What was he going to do? His brain couldn't work out any good ideas. Ringo felt so scared of disappointing his love. The special, precious gift, that could, maybe, if he succeeded, be a turning point in their relationship, and a good one, simply remained unknown. He still had time, sure, he always had; he'd find something, he always did; the fear he'd deceive would not go, it never went 

He stayed there and lost himself in defeated thoughts. 

What would he offer George? 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowers, lots of them, and many gardens. Then a starrison fight. The most fluffy moment ever combined with a big part with arguings. Also lots of disgusting pda and kisses and love. In the end, will Ringo find the gift ?? (Dramatic pause)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go for chapter 2 !! This one is my fav, for many reasons hehe. I hope you will enjoy this one!  
> As always, dedicated to deeblue, but also to you three people who commented on the first chapter 💙  
> Enjoy !

##  **12th February 1988**

Ringo had a very, remarkably, little, insignificant, ridiculous excuse of a garden; he was quite aware of it; going to George's house was enough of a proof.  _ But _ at least it wasn't an ugly terrible and discarded garden; he took great care of it; well when he didn't mind getting his hands stained with dirt –rarely.

It was behind his house; sitting on the balcony, you could get a clear view of it. The cold chilling temperature didn't affect its beauty, the rather sunny weather these last days created a colorful and vivid atmosphere; the grass was of a proud green, the moss on the trees of a deep profound color, the bushes of a verdant foliage. His exotic plants he had found on tours and had brought here were closed, sleeping peacefully; they didn't hinder the atmosphere, but brought a peaceful and slumbering aura to the scene. It was as if in the middle of winter stood an arrogant and very much alive remain of summer: his garden. A stone bench stayed alone in this undomesticated small land. In front of it, one could see a bundle of bushes under ivy-covered arch, their luscious green climbing and devouring the metal. In summer, the plants underneath blossomed and white daisies blanketed the floor like a cloud, their yellow heads glowing bright like millions of suns. It was a beautiful view. 

Ringo sat, and watched nature for a while. He never was one for gardening; hands in the dirty ground, digging holes and filling them, covering himself in soil, stumbling in the mud; he winced; no thanks! He was more into photography, and this garden was a perfect scenery for it. Gardening was more of George's thing; how many pictures he took of his love in his gardening filthy clothes, with a big smile as he carried in his hands roots and leaves. This scene, he had witnessed so many times, and Ringo swore he would never get tired of it. He hated gardening, but he loved the gardener too much.

They had walked together through Friar Park's immense garden again and again; when George made you visit his garden, he was showing you a piece of himself; Ringo felt privileged to be the one who had seen it all again and again. Even though he had laughed when he had seen George's passion the first time: a skinny 25 years old in a rock band gushing about sunflowers and lilacs, and how he would ensure they were all in the right spot, to grow perfectly, and be healthy, was too precious; it had been a wholehearted laugh, full of adoration and love. Oh he remembered that day well; it was the first time he discovered that George didn't just like gardening, but was addicted to it, and would do anything to share it to him, to Ringo. Such a pure thought; Ringo still felt warmth whenever he remembered that George trusted him and loved him so much he wanted them to have a garden together. They never really had it, but he considered Friar Park's garden as theirs. He knew all the plants from there, had even participated to it, in a small manner. When they strolled through it, George always pointed to a random plant, then rambled on all its properties and particular needs; sometimes George asked Ringo personally what he should grow next, where should he grow it. But the best was when George took his hand, and drew him with him to crouch to a flower, a special one that had caught his eyes, and, their hand stills together, touched it, connecting to nature again, and together. It was such a natural, yet intimate act, Ringo's heart melted in his chest. 

George was a man of nature. To crazy crowds shouting his name, he preferred the long calm ambience of his garden; to interviewers' incessant questioning, he enjoyed the water lilies floating on his pond, that never demanded anything. What was a public to nature? It was more understanding, and more healing, than any tours fame had imposed him. To George, a guitar and a garden were all he needed to dream. 

Ringo had thought of offering him new plants; it was the go-to gift; George told him he was looking for new pine trees. But he had offered plants so many times already. Sure, he had been happy, George could never not smile at a plant. However, it was not unique at all. 

Ringo got up again, and he strolled to one of the only flower he owned that wasn't closed. Touching a leaf in his hand, he looked at his tiny rosebush, a yellow rose looking back at him arrogantly, with little drops from the early morning hours glittering under the sun on its delicate petals. That rosebush was special: a rare plant he had kept from a past garden; when he still lived in London, when he was still in the Beatles; more particularly, when he had just gotten back in the band. The garden his London's house had been even smaller than now, and, even if he had owned the house for years, it was only in 1968 that it had been used. And it wasn't Ringo who had used it. He snorted. Oh no, he wasn't the one who had planted that tiny rosebush, or any of the other plants of that time; heck, he didn't even take care of it in the beginning. He had kept it, even if he moved so many times. But if it was still alive now, it was thanks to George first. If his garden had been finally used, it was thanks to George. 

Ringo's lips cracked into a soft smile, his eyes crinkling in mirth. Such a fond memory in all those bad times. Delight flooded him, as he remembered that moment, when he received another unique gift. 

George had offered him a piece of himself: a garden. 

*** 

##  **_September 1968_ **

_ There was a hurried knocking on his door at 8 in the morning, and Ringo absolutely despised it. He groaned. That sound had persisted for hours! Couldn't the lad give up already? He didn't want to open the bloody door; he wanted to stay in bed and finally sleep soundly and safely, with no worry. He had just arrived home from his two weeks trip to Sardinia, after leaving the band; the voyage had been worrying, he didn't like abandoning his bandmates in times of hardship, especially his lover; yet he had been too tired to really care, and ran away. Yesterday, his return had emotionally drained them way too much; as good as it had felt, Ringo only wanted to sleep now. They had been allowed an entire week off to recover and rest, no studio sessions or anything to bother them. Oh yes it had been really draining. But it had been so lovely.  _

_ Ringo tightened his hold on his pillow as he remembered George's smile and his arms around his waist when –KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK– God! He couldn't even think peacefully anymore with this knocking!  _

_ He grumbled and opened his tired eyes. Lazily, he rolled out of bed, and send a glance toward his wife's side; she seemed not to mind the noise. On a chair laid his red velvet dressing gown; he put it on and slipped in his sleepers. He walked downstairs and strode to the door, yelling on the way that he was coming, and to please stop making such loud noise; the lad replied by knocking louder. Ringo cursed as he tried to find the keys. Who ever that person was, they were mocking him; at 8 a.m. it wasn't something Ringo could tolerate. Only his friends had the keys to pass the gates; if this was John completely high again and playing another joke he was going to–  _

_ His threat was interrupted when he opened the door wide to reveal George, a goofy grin glowing on his face, all dressed up in gardening boots, some sort of overalls, and a white smudged long-sleeved shirt underneath, and behind him remained wooden boxes on the ground. And if this wasn't the cutest sight that could have greeted him in the morning, he would keep on yelling. Instead, he was fighting a losing battle against his mouth from twitching into a lovestruck smile, and his eyes from softening. All of the sudden it wasn't such a bad thing he was awoken early and so rudely.  _

_ "Hi Ringo!"  _

_ Ringo hummed in answer and spread his arms wide. George rushed into them and landed a brief kiss on his lips. His sleepiness catching up with him, he buried his head in George's chest as if it were a pillow, and pretended his arms were a blanket against the cold. Then he felt George nuzzling his hair, and tightened his hold. He closed his eyes, sighed in contentment. This was even more comfortable than a real bed, and Ringo let the warmth engulf him wholly. He mumbled something but his words were slurred.  _

_ "What're ye doing here at this hour? 'S too early t' get off bed…" _

_ George laughed wholeheartedly at his love, and kissed his forehead.  _

_ "Ringo, don't sleep on me! Wake up! We have lots of work!"  _

_ And Ringo was left in the cold, his warm blanket and pillow, gone. Processing this absence was hard for his slow brain, even harder was understanding this last sentence. What work?  _

_ "What do ye mean 'work'?" _

_ George was jumping down the steps to all the boxes, his big shirt flopping about, long hair moving from side to side, and he was positively beaming. Looking at the spring in his steps, it seemed the lad was radiating energy and excitement and Ringo's slow dozing brain translated this into something quite dirty; it didn't even shock his mind, for he was always in a raunchy mood in the morning; and the sight was too good for him not to think of it. Besides, they hadn't seen each other for two weeks, they didn't get to really… celebrate Ringo's return already.  _

_ "Did you mean fucking?" _

_ George cackled loudly at that, his head thrown back. He was wheezing, and he shot Ringo a meaningful look; his eyes, gleaming with mischief, didn't hide much.  _

_ "Ringo! Not that! Be patient, we're not in the flat yet," he winked at him. "Later, if we work well. Now, come here and help me with these boxes. We're gonna move them to the backyard."  _

_ "Shouldn't I change first?" he asked, as he noticed George's outfit seemed to be more suitable for some manual work. _

_ "Just close your dressing gown," he replied as he gave him a box, since Ringo had just joined his side. Then, with a playful nudge, he added: "Even though I'd love to watch you walk around in your boxers only all day, you'd get too cold for… later."  _

_ Ringo blushed furiously, and dropped the box to tie his gown's belt and make sure it was firmly close. He hadn't even noticed the state he had been in when he left the room; he was quite undressed. He lightly punched George's shoulder, as the man gave him a naughty look. Unbelievable. George could be a cheeky horny boy when he wanted to. Oh, Paul and George were certainly the worst! But he would have all the time to deal with this when they would go to their private flat, their little shared heaven full of love, where they could be together. It was their safe place. And Ringo couldn't wait to get there. _

_ But first, he had to do George's mission, whatever it was. George had dropped the previous box in his hands again. End of dreamland.  _

_ There were five wooden boxes, of average height; easy to carry, it seemed they contained some light stuff. Another bigger box, heavier, made metallic noises as it was lifted up. Each took three of them to where George led them: the backyard. Ringo put his charge down, George fetched a soil bag. To Ringo's inquisitive questions as to what his aim was, George answered by opening the boxes one by one; flowers were inside; of all colors, of all sizes; some freshly cut, some with their roots kept on; they weren't ordinary flowers.  _

_ "Are these the flowers of yesterday? The one you put on me drums?"  _

_ "Yes, they are. It's your gift after all." _

_ And Ringo's heart skipped a beat. Yesterday, George had made him such an incredible surprise. After arriving at Abbey Road, he had been welcomed and hugged by Paul and John who had been waiting for him. They had looked so happy. So much different to when he had left. They had guided him to the recording studio and, as John had slapped his back and made him tumble inside, Ringo saw it; his drums, all covered in flowers; yellow sunflowers on the ground, white lilacs and daisies on the upper part, sunny roses on the sides, bright ivy entwined with the microphone, and vivid carnation resting on the cymbals; all shone, vibrant and magnificent, like gates to heaven, singing their happy tune to greet him back. It was simply, breathtaking. And Ringo had stood there, hand hiding his mouth as he let out an inaudible gasp, the beauty of the room overtaking him.  _

_ Then, he remembered how he had heard George yell his name. Turned around, caught him in his arms, falling on the floor, head in the sunflowers. Lips on his mouth, kissing him tenderly, hands in hair, holding him tight. Then a soft smile, a forehead touch, a flower in his hair. Welcome back. Love. It was alright.  _

_ It was all George's doing. He already was the main reason he came back; his desperate, longing letters had broken his heart. George had decorated his drums, just for him. All day, he had never let him go. Now, he was still not letting him go; now George wanted to do more than decorate his drums. Ringo couldn't help but smile at the prospect, and his curiosity only grew more as to what exactly was George's project.  _

_ A pair of gloves in his hands snapped him out of his thoughts, and he came back to the present. Ringo was still not connecting the dots. He watched George put on his, impassable and focused, then looking around. His eyes paused at a small square, about maybe two meters on two meters, Ringo wasn't really sure –to be honest he had just noticed that square– filled with old, harsh and dusty soil. Contrasting to the clear peebles they were walking on, it looked even more dead. To that view, George furrowed his brow in disappointment.  _

_ "Is it your garden?" he asked as he pointed it. Ringo nodded. George sighed and crossed his arms.  _

_ "It's a bit small…"  _

_ Ringo lifted an eyebrow at that. Watching intently George, he couldn't help but be at a loss; his lips were pursed, and he was glaring at the tiny, innocent square; he was almost threatening it to expand and flourish with his eyes. He took a step closer.  _

_ "What's the problem?"  _

_ George made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if he was in the face of something ashaming, and not worth his aim. Letting out a sneer, at it, he then said bluntly to Ringo, as if his irritation was evident:  _

_ "The plants will never fit in there!"  _

_ … what did he mean by that? Why would he try to fit them in that square?  _

_ Sudden understanding dawned on Ringo. _

_ "Wait, we're gonna plant them?"  _

_ George blinked at him. Once. Twice. Dumbfounded. Taken aback.  _

_ "Yes?" Then he straightened and snorted. "Well, most of them. We'll try our best with this tiny thing. Besides," he halted, as he tapped his nose with his finger, then waved it teasingly in front of him. "I'm just making sure you can keep them for a long time. No tiny garden gonna stop me from delivering your present." _

_ He moved to the biggest box, the one that had made metallic sound when carried, and took out random gardening tools, that he proceeded to throw next to the small empty patch; Ringo didn't know the use of most of them; he never grew up near nature; they didn't own a garden when he was younger; now he was older, but had no reason to think about such things like gardening; neither did George. That's what Ringo kept on being confused at George's action. As the slim man in his oversized boots and shirt rummaged through the rest of the contents of the box, Ringo still had to inquire about this project.  _

_ "But, George?...  _ **_you_ ** _ know how to garden now?"  _

_ George halted. He was frozen for a second. In slow-motion, he turned to him; the shock was plain on his face; eyebrows flown to his hairline, jaw dropped, eyes round; the core of George's being had been insulted, like it had been when someone claimed he couldn't tune his guitar, or didn't know what a sitar was. Shock had transformed his face. Then colors came back to him, and he was waving his arms as he said loudly, for all the world to hear the gravity of Ringo's insult:  _

_ "Of course I know! It's my passion! And I'll prove it, just you wait and see. I'll make you the most beautiful garden of whole England!"  _

_ And there George went, taking a rake and raking the old ground, sculpting his tiny garden, and operating his magic. He was making quick swift scrapes, his arms going up, then falling down, modeling the ground as he wished. With what Ringo assumed was a miniature shovel, he took away the peebles that crossed his way, and the soil became smooth as he passed. Abruptly, he ran to his water can and shoved it to Ringo's face, asking silently to fill it up. In his confusion, Ringo didn't object and, since he had no tap outside, went inside. What was going to be the finishing result, Ringo couldn't help but wonder, for he never knew of George's passion before, and, as much as he trusted him, he doubted gardening was his forte. That, soon changed.  _

_ Once full, he joined George again, till the view slowed him down; there George sat, knees deep in the soil; a rock'n'roll guitarist of the world's most famous band was digging holes in the new fertilized rich dark ground, and dirtying himself as he went. He lifted his head up when Ringo approached, and scratched his cheek with his muddy gloved hand; a brown smudge appeared. It was a sight to behold, and Ringo had the urge to observe this new discovery he had found.  _

_ He gave George his filled water can, and stayed back. George told him the flowers he wanted, so Ringo could fetch them for him. That's how the hour went: George, kneeling on the ground, digging roaming planting, while Ringo was bent, looking over George's crouched body, to what he was doing, giving him each flower he needed. First came the sunflowers, gathered in a small compact round in the middle of the square, then the carnations, another square around the sunflowers, and on each corner, two yellow rose bushes and two white lilacs. He puts some ivy outside to cover the granite stones of the garden's outline. To finish, the daisies were laid randomly, in little bundles, where blank space remained.  _

_ To Ringo's eyes, the garden was more than renewed: from the patch of dead grass and harsh soil now stood proud a radiant sun, surrounded by fragile clouds and small stars of yellow heads, and overflowing the frame, free and tall, were its guardians, moving with the wind, living; a painting of the sky on the ground, in his yard, in a once tiny patch, now large. And here the painter sat, at the center of his art, adding the finishing touches to his work. An artist he was; smudged was his face, muddy were his clothes, and delicate was his touch; for he had taken off his gloves to be closer to his creation, to smile as he understood them. Lightly wetting his fingers with the water from the can, he brushed drops of clear liquid on the petals of the grounded sun, like the last details of his canvas. Pausing his hands in the air, he let the scents of the freshly new colors reach his nostrils, then stood up, careful in his action. He stepped out of the frame, leaving his painting behind. With a focused gaze, he checked, like a critic of his own art, every detail, every petal, every shade of yellows and whites, and every size. To Ringo, he was no longer the owner of this garden; George had come and claimed it, shaped it as he wished, and gave it life. To Ringo, George was an artist, who had, with a brush of his hands, created beauty where once laid death.  _

_ George's mouth formed a satisfied smirk. He clapped his hand, and declared like a conclusion that everyone awaited: "It's finished."  _

_ Ringo clapped back. Clapped once. Clapped twice. Never stopped clapping away till it became a noisy mess and he stopped with a bounce. Once this excitement wave passed, he leaned onto George's side, and watched, mesmerized, the masterpiece in his yard, eyes glittering.  _

_ "George, it's beautiful."  _

_ An arm found its road to his shoulder and grasped it, to bring his form closer to George's dirty, but once white, oversized shirt. Then George brought his face closer to him, to be at eye level with Ringo, and, in a feathery whisper, asked:  _

_ "Do you like it?"  _

_ With a wide smile gracing his lips, he moved his head to the side and nuzzled his cheek; he closed his eyes, and left a flying kiss on it.  _

_ "I love it George. Thank you."  _

_ George made a satisfying sound, and nuzzled Ringo's cheek back, leaving faint kisses on the side of his face, softly and happily, forgetting everything around but them; no one was there to bother them; they were at peace, serene, calm. They stood there, in each other's arms, admiring their creation, letting its colors, scents, and movements lull them to a warm contentment. Nothing in the world would have made Ringo budge from here, from those arms; their hold were too warm, too fulfilling to the gape his heart had suffered these last days; they did not hurt but soothed; they were capable of beauty and love; he was standing in front of their living proof. Ringo sighed and, after another chaste contact of his lips on George's, he rested his head on George's shoulder and watched. He had missed it.  _

_ Eventually, George shifted, and scratched his chin, a signal that he was going to speak. The silence broke.  _

_ "So, I'll come in the next mornings to check on the plants, make sure they're good. 'Cause I know you, you'll forget to take care of them," he gave him a sideways glance, but Ringo did not protest; he pouted; George was right, forgetting things was in his nature. Besides, there was no reason to complain about George coming every morning at his home now, wasn't there? He could always find a way to distract him from his plants for a while and turns his attention to him. Now really, no reason to object.  _

_ "I don't think I'll mind it. Thank you George."  _

_ They smiled, again, as they stared at each other. It felt right again. Finally. A hand grazed his right cheek with no hesitancy, his owner the embodiment of a calm, soothing radiant sunrise in the sky, with inviting lips to taste. But Ringo didn't get to touch them, for as he approached, a light brush of his lips on them, noises were heard coming from the house, and both men jolted back. A longing stare passed. It was true, they forgot; their love wasn't safe here; they weren't allowed to be one. _

_ It did not deter their mood; they were quick to fall back in their comfort, and walked to the front of the yard. Ringo knew what was coming, if George had not changed his mind; it was rarely the case with this stubborn lad. He crept closer to him on his tiptoes, arms so close, and whispered in his ears:  _

_ "Shall I bring my gardener to my flat? I think it's my turn to get my hands dirty now…"  _

_ George choked up and halted his stride; he laughed, coughed, looking absolutely astonished. Tried to take a few strangled breathes between his giggles, while Ringo wore a perfectly smug smile. He uttered a feigned shocked "Ringo!". But Ringo did not regret it; the red tinting his grinning face was worth everything; he'd do anything for that smile.  _

_ He went home while George waited outside, put on some more decent clothes than his dressing gown, even though he knew he would be back in it shortly after. Then he told Maureen he was going with George to work on songs, which Ringo knew they wouldn't; he had much better plans that he wasn't willing to share. And they were off.  _

_ Before going, stopping at the front gates, Ringo stared, eyes meeting George's, and held his hand in his, briefly, shortly.  _

_ "Let's go home now."  _

_ ***  _

But, how could Ringo compete with  **that** now? 

Ringo was regretting this; this memory trip at set the level high, way too high for him. He took his head in his hands, and pulled his hair in frustration. He was down. Cursing George in his mind. George had always had the best present for Ringo. Always. Never one gifts Ringo offered were this good. And it was angering, and saddening him greatly. He touched the rosebush; it didn't give him the answer. 

He got up, sighed, and spared a last glance at the yellow rose, who still stood proudly under the sun, under Ringo's utter disappointment. He was defeated again. As he left the garden, only one thought in his head remained; 

What to do, what to do for his love.

*** 

##  **18th February 1988**

Days passed and nothing came to his mind; despair flooded it. Some bribes of memories of George's likes, of passions they shared, of joys they had, woke in his mind, but like a fleeting dream, they flew away too fast for him to write them down and stick them to the confines of his consciousness. They drifted away; he was left in disarray. 

But time was running out, and Ringo's anxiety grew every hour. He was driven to drastic ideas to find something worthy of his love; exigeance increased; his lover deserved more and more; bigger, more unique, of a rare special quality; more well-thought, more mature, of an undeniable class; the list of criteria went on and on. It was getting longer each time he found an idea and gave up on it; as if all that failed set the level higher for him. If he did not hurry, it would be longer still. 

That's why here he was, on a Thursday evening, in his attic, rummaging through boxes of memories, in a last attempt in his quest for a worthy present. A present to be remembered.

In a futile attempt to discover uncharted ideas, he had called George earlier that day, on the subject of his birthday. So, in his impossibly not smooth tone, he bribed some information from George about any wishes he had of a gift. In vain, as it was fruitless. For George saw right through his scheme, and laughed, calling him an "horrible adorable liar". A joke Ringo didn't catch on; not having slept the previous nights, his patience was running thin; laughing about such an event, that his mind had built as so important, was an affront. He yelled. He rarely did. George knew it. He quieted down, calmed him down, didn't joke around. Reassured him. It was alright. Thank God George had been in a good mood, for he would have yelled back at any other times. Nonetheless, it didn't mean not yelling was a positive sign; the dejected voice he heard through the phone was not fooling Ringo.

George had said: "Get me nothing. Just be here with me." Ringo had understood: "I knew you wouldn't find something."

That Ringo wouldn't let it pass. 

George needed him to be with him. But, Ringo did not live with him: when he would need him the most, Ringo wouldn't be here; the memories they shared would be present, the past they had, a ghost in the room. Ringo wanted to make this past real, those memories alive, to George, whenever he needed them, with a present, worthy of them. 

The attic was his last solution. His last resort. Full of memorabilia from the past, it contained the treasures of their Beatles years, and the tokens of the lost seventies. Boxes and boxes were inspected closely and precisely, cut and examined till their very depth; tapes, records, clothes, accessories, goodies, souvenirs; none escaped Ringo's scrutinizing eyes. Useless stuff, things that shouldn't be here –to who had belonged that box of condoms he did not wish to know– things that weren't his own; sparks of ideas lighted his brain, but no fire were made. Nothing was good. Already thought of this. It was awful. Restlessness gained him. No meaningful presents in sight. Nothing real. 

He let out a frustrated growl, self-doubt flooding him, as he slapped down another photo book on the wooden floor. Nothing came from that book; another wasted try. Legs stiff from having sat cross-legged on the floor for so long, with his souvenirs spread around and circling him, he stretched them out. In the middle of the circle of his memory, he felt like surrendering; his last resort was another disaster. It was time to leave it behind. 

He picked his body up, and, in no mood to clean, left everything as it was; making the mess disappear would remind him he failed once again. It didn't stop his eyes from lingering around the place. Fortune must have felt his despair, for those same eyes landed on an old plastic bag, at the bottom of a closet, where a piece of clothing stood out. Intrigued, he approached, opened it; inside was a suit. A dusty, old, black suit. Why did his eyes rest on it so long he did not know. But fortune kept on guiding his gaze, and he was taking out the suit to watch it over. Ringo had worn so many suits in his life; yet, there was something with this one, that had his attention trapped. The simple, major fact that he had kept such a regular black suit, of a cheap fabric and an appalling quality, was a wonder on it's own. He sat again, to see it better. 

With no control over his body, he let his hands touch and feel the cloth: his hands thought it hid something from him, and explored the pockets of his vest. Right one; nothing. Left one; a small piece of torn paper. Pulling it out. His eyes widened in recollection; the paper said "Welcome to the band"; it was written by George. 

He was holding the suit George had given him in 1962. 

It was supposed to be from Brian, but the one who had put it in his hands had been George. Now as he held it, this object, Ringo realized how worthless it was now; worn out, cheap, and clearly not something as unaffordable to him as before. Nonetheless, this useless present, managed to make his eyes water. Why? Because it was not really a piece of cloth he was holding, but a piece of memory, a piece of time, a symbol, of their history and past, of a moment they shared. This, was something truly meaningful. It wasn't big it wasn't grand, it was enough. The day he got it, was a day where he belonged somewhere. 

Was it a sign? Did he have to find, for George, a present full of their history, something cheap, common or useless, but true and significant to their hearts? 

As Ringo's fingers trailed down the fabric, he let his mind wander to it; he united himself to the story of the suit. The day he had gotten it was a night in Liverpool, but beyond its nice and relaxed summer atmosphere, an irate and heated event had occurred. The end of this event was captured in that suit and its tiny folded paper. 

*** 

##  **_August 1962_ **

_ George was a bloodied mess. A black eye adorned his swollen face, the right one alright but puffy and red, his nose was slightly hurt, blood trickling down his chin; it was not broken; his jaw however, might as well be, for a horrible bruise was forming, his left side turning bluish. His feet were stuck to the floor as he sat there in his poor little chair, right angled to Ringo's, but a tremor rocked those legs when they were left unchecked by George's dropping tired eyes. His body was in a better condition than his face, except for small cuts on his clothes, and the arms of the suit looking like they had been stretched too far; Ringo understood it meant George's arms must have been harshly pulled back. However, it seemed the boy was in a bit of a shock, for he often shivered, and seemed to try to shrink, to hide his face in his unharmed shoulders. The ragged breathings coming from his mouth could not, as much as they tried, be stopped by his closed lips; pained winces escaped them every time Ringo's wet cloth touched his face, in hopes of soothing it all away. If he wasn't such a wreck, Ringo might have yelled. Shouted. Cried. Torn between love and anger, concern, fondness, incomprehension; so he kept on brushing his hurt face, waiting for their hearts to calm.  _

_ "You took a punch for me."  _

_ George didn't turn his head, didn't look away from his legs –legs that shook when his voice rose, however his ears didn't seem to catch his words. Simply nothing. He was out of it. Was it from the impact of the punches he had gotten, was it because he was not believing what had happened, or because he was just thinking of what he just did; that was what Ringo was wondering at least, for he couldn't grasp the reasons behind George's previous actions. George's careless, bold yet courageous actions.  _

_ His boyfriend had picked up a fight, and the result was frightening.  _

_ They had had their first gig at the Cavern tonight with him, Ringo Starr, the new drummer of the Beatles. Pete Best had been sent away, and the band had wanted  _ **_him_ ** _ to replace him. Him, the poor drummer Ringo, who had unmatched clothes and unmatched hair to the rest of the band; who was older, scarier; who had spent his childhood in bad places or hospital; who, sure, replaced Pete for few gigs in the past, and was dating the lead guitarist since a year ago; who couldn't get why. He didn't understand why they wanted him; the public didn't understand why the band wanted him. They wanted Pete Best. Ringo didn't want them. This was a well known fact before they started their gig: that the public wouldn't appreciate it, that Ringo would feel ill at ease. So that was what had happened.  _

_ When they went on stage, not even starting any songs yet, shouts had been loud and clear: "We want Pete Best". If this hadn't convinced them, the glasses and other objects which were thrown at them, and complains that could be heard from the back of the bar. Paul had tried to be diplomatic; John was unfazed, not giving a damn about them; George was not okay. Oh George had been furious, fuming, aggressively strumming his guitar, his hold on it too tight. Ringo, behind his drum set, had watched his mood worsen through the first songs; to him it was plain visible George would explode before the end. And explode he had, for five songs through their set, it had been one provocation too many. Some lad shouted a nasty insult at Ringo. Ringo had not cared –he had heard so many in his life, what was the point of getting mad about it? That's when George exploded, while Paul had sang.  _

_ He had strode to a microphone,grasped it in his hands, and shouted a loud, deafening, earth-shattering: "FUCK OFF!"  _

_ After the momentarily froze they had played away, the public calmer and appreciating the band once again. But George still looked angry. Ringo had hoped however that it would be alright; now he was sighing loudly as he remembered it wasn't the case, the black eye he was trying to soothe, the painful reminder of it. They had shortened the gig, and when it was over, he quickly glanced at George: the lad was off the stage, going straight through the crowd. Knowing what was about to occur, he had ran to John and Paul in help; but this had made him waste precious time, for he had lost his sight on him during that brief lapse of time, and the three of them were left looking through the crowd. They weren't fast enough, their eyes weren't quick. The next time they saw George, he was hovering in the air, feet off the ground, his back pressed against a wall; an ugly, sneering, tall young docker gripping his collar, glaring like a madman, a slight bruise on his right cheek; he punched George already swollen face, right in front of their eyes. They still hadn't been fast enough to stop three more punches from landing on George.  _

_ Then John had hit back, then ran after the lad, George was dropped and caught by Paul, then given to Ringo, then Paul ran after John. Then came back, made sure George was okay, Ringo assuring he would take care of him. Both went to yell at Brian about it, while Ringo had taken George's shaking and hurt form with him, lifting him by his shoulder, and here they were, backstage, with a poor wet cloth as the only way to soothe George, and many questions about the night.  _

_ "Why did you do that George?"  _

_ No distance really separated them; the chairs, still at a right angle together, assured they weren't side by side, in front of a slightly dirty mirror –the stains of drinks made sure your face would look blotchy if you dared looking at it, especially if you had a black eye– and nothing else in the room but instrument cases. Still their knees touched, as if they were provoking the distance the large room tried to impose them. George shrugged, but slumped afterwards again, in his previous position; Ringo rested his elbows on his legs, bent toward the hurt guitarist. He had stopped his careful ministrations, instead trying to meet the other's eyes; they remained unresponsive. A blank page that hid his words of emotions from readers like the drummer; the author wouldn't write them for him. Even as he moved closer, no limbs in George's form moved; the page stayed secret. _

_ Holding the now damp cloth, he shifted closer in his seat, and cradled George's face in his hands, making it turn to him. The pout gracing George's lips, and his distraught mask softened Ringo's heart. He was hurt. So, he adapted his voice. Lower. Slower.  _

_ "George, tell me. What's wrong?"  _

_ A hand moved to his, resting on it. George closed his eyes. He let out a deep breath; in that breathe, the pain was taken away, and his furrowed brows relaxed; for a minute he was calm, his fingers giving small pressures to the palm he was holding, and his face budged to nuzzle it; then these eyes opened. The hand slid to his wrist. He was finally looking at him.  _

_ "I just-..." he paused, but his eyes didn't hide again. The author was finally developing his story. "He shouldn't have insulted you, Ritchie."  _

_ Ringo blinked. Now, "Ritchie" was a rare nickname, only given when George was in distress. But, the context of the sentence didn't seem to call for it; not too Ringo. Try as hard as he might, he couldn't see the problem here, especially the reason to start a fight. Insults had been thrown at him since his childhood, and, if when young he had fought against them, he now knew they meant nothing; they were a constant of his harsh young days. The lad could only stare, awaiting further explanation from George; they did not come; a firm line settled on his lips; they were sealed. Only one sentence had been written by George, the rest remained blank; Ringo was left questioning its meaning.  _

_ Ringo couldn't understand. George thought it was understandable. It was a misunderstanding. _

_ "So?" he finally settled on after a while. Was it a smart choice? Certainly not. To George, it was more than not. He frowned, then his face twisted in disbelief. However, the rise in his voice wasn't acceptable.  _

_ "What do you mean "so"?" he almost screeched. "You can't say that it's-"  _

_ "Don't start shouting at me George!"  _

_ One cutting yell and George instantly shut his mouth. If he thought he could blow up at him like that, when he had been worried and scared, George was proven wrong. Ringo had still not calmed his fear, nor could he forget the atrocious sight of his boyfriend getting beaten up. He wouldn't be yelled at because he did not understand. He had every right not to understand. No matter what his reasons were, he would listen; but something as worthless as fighting for an insult, that wasn't even directed at George –it was directed at him! Yet he didn't fight about it– was unfathomable for Ringo; his mind couldn't grasp it, and no matter how far he dug into it, he couldn't remember any time something like this had happened.  _

_ Inhaling sharply, trying to stay calm. Ringo was talking to a boiling young man, high on adrenaline, ready to defend himself; Ringo, high on fear and concerns, had to listen.  _

_ "George, it was just an insult," the man –or brat at the moment– opened his mouth, about to protest; the scowl he received snapped it shut again. "You  _ **_don't_ ** _ pick up fights for something stupid like an insult. Especially when they don't concern you."  _

_ "But Ringo!" he still groaned in frustration. A black eye glared at him. That's when Ringo noticed how much it had swelled since then; the wet cloth could have quelled its growth; proper care too, but there were none in the bar, nor backstage. The deep desire to soothe the pain away had to be quenched, as Ringo could feel George's anger building. Fists trembling on his knees, Ringo also noticed he was no longer cradling that hurt beautiful face he loved so much, but was gripping his own hands together, in a tight hold, restraining himself as much as he could. Then, the young, 19 years old guitarist, so different from his usual joyful and deep calmness, flung his right arm in a wild gesture, the movement spreading his indignation in the room, intoxicating it with his pent up rage and incredulity. "He shouldn't have insulted you! They all did, and they shouldn't have! And-" _

_ "So what?" Ringo interrupted. He felt his anger slowly building too. This wasn't a good sign. _

_ "You were going to fight the whole bar?"  _

_ " _ **_No!_ ** _ " he got up from his chair, fists still trembling at his side. "That's not what I meant!"  _

_ Ringo had to look up now. He was at a disadvantage, and his instincts screamed at him to rise too. So he did. He faced his boyfriend's outrage with a now equal fury.  _

_ "Then what did you mean? That you had to get angry for something stupid? The insult was for me George! Not for you."  _

_ "That  _ **_is_ ** _ why! Ringo can't you see that-  _

_ "Can't I bloody see what, George!" he snapped. At that precise moment, there was a shift in their fight; suddenly the one attacking was Ringo; George was not calmed down, but Ringo's rage had surpassed his. "The only thing I can see is that you got yourself _ **_hurt_ ** _!"  _

_ A step back. George lost his voice. A moment of weakness. The author had no words. Yet, he meekly tried, against the now wide eyed, hardened, snarling drummer. Sometimes, they were all remembered Ringo had scared them before; sometimes, they had the proof right in front of their eyes as to why.  _

_ "But Ringo, I was just trying to… I just did-"  _

_ "You scared me shitless George! That's what you did!" Ringo finally burst out. Finally yelled his fear out. Finally. When he did, his tone slowly lowered as he completed. "I was worried. George, I can't stand it. I can't stand seeing you get hurt."  _

_ They stopped. They were drained. No more angry rants for both of them. They slumped back in their chairs. Anger dissipated from the room.  _

_ From his position, Ringo could see that George was no longer fidgeting about; he seemed to relax, so Ringo could do it. With a sigh, he let his hands rub his eyes; they were so tired all of a sudden; all his body was, he felt as if he had been carrying the weight of millions of thoughts on his frail form. Not really sure if he was still upset or not, not really knowing if George was still mad or not. For now, he was glad he could enjoy this small silent break. They had a childish fight, or a serious one, Ringo did not dwell on that; he only remembered George's reason, and his, to get angry. Then he let it go into the blur behind his closed lids.  _

_ Opening them again, he chanced a glance toward George; he was gazing at him, sadness clouding him, his miserable black eye and bruises adding to the sorrow of his world. He was still hurt. But they just stared at each other, for Ringo knew his face was as sad as his. Long. Silent. Sadness. _

_ George surprisingly broke this scheme. A hesitating hand mentioned to the wet cloth. He was asking with his eyes for it. Ringo did not want to let him do it though. So, he went back to his position before their fight, bent toward George, retrieving the wet cloth that had fallen during their argument, and he brushed it around the black area. With slow strokes, he tried to take the bits of dried blood away, and noticed some blood dropped from a cut on his eyebrow. He pressed on it, before caressing his bruised face again. Focused in the movement of his hand, on the hurt spots, but not on their owner, he entered the comfort of his bubble. The tense atmosphere was still vivid, but shyly quieting down, with the meticulous work Ringo was doing with his cloth; each brush took a bit of tension away, as if the blood on George's face had been the trigger of everything. This blood was taken down. Their features were softening, till there was no tension, only them and their calmness. George had his eyes closed throughout this change; Ringo was too concentrated on his task to notice, until the silence was broken.  _

_ "I'm sorry."  _

_ It took him a second to register these words, for they came from a weak croaking voice, but when he did, he felt his jaw slacken, and his shoulders slump. George hadn't meant anything wrong after all. So he stopped his work, met his sad eyes and pouty lips, and took his chin; George was sincere. He caressed his cheek, his lips twitched into a smile.  _

_ "It's ok. I understand George," the boy smiled back, and it warmed his heart. However he let out a sigh. "I just don't like watching you get careless for useless stuff, I-"  _

_ "You're not useless Ringo."  _

_ He froze, his hands stilled. They moved away from the face he was holding as his mouth fell open and his eyes flinched. That was the first time that George had surprised him so well. He didn't know what to say. Of course Ringo let his emotions transparent to everyone, he knew that his eyes were the windows to his soul. But he always had a smile for a mask, always a worry for someone else than him. How could he have imagined, for a moment, that George would have picked up a fight, because he stood up for him? Because Ringo was accepting the insults, and George didn't; because George wanted to defend him, and George had understood something that had always been too natural to question for him.  _

_ He felt this way with his mom; why did she waste his time with a poor sick kid like him? He felt this way with the band; he couldn't understand why they wanted him instead of Pete. He felt this way with George; why did he love him?  _

_ No one talked in the room; Ringo never answered. It wasn't unnoticed, for George's face dropped with each second that passed. They weren't mad, there were no burst of anger; no screams, no yells, no cries; especially no more misunderstandings between them; they both knew. George reacted; he got up, patted his knees and told him to wait here, and went to his guitar case in the back. Tired eyes lingered on his form, dropped to the floor, snapped back up when he heard George's chair move with a scraping noise, so they sat next to each other, this time their legs pressed tight. The package he was holding was laid on his knees; it was a pack of folded black clothes; a torn paper rested on them; "Welcome to the band" it was written by George. A suit, just like them. Just like the rest of the band. _

_ Did he get him a suit?  _

_ "Brian said he couldn't give you your Beatles suit earlier," he said, smiled at his surprised small open mouth. "I said I'd give it to our new drummer, with a personal touch." His cheeks heated up at that, and he couldn't keep away his shy smile. "Their" new drummer.  _

_ "George, I don't know what to say…"  _

_ "Ringo," he took his hands in his, lifted them from his legs, the suit still on Ringo's knees, shoulders to shoulders. George looked at their hands. "We've been together for a year now. Finally, you're with me in the band," Ringo was feeling shyer and redder. God George was slowly turning him into a puddle of mush; he was forgetting about their argument. Smart lad. "George stop-"  _

_ "That's why I got so angry," he interrupted him. The stare he landed on him froze him; it was of such intensity that his breath was stolen. Oh George was not finished yet. "We defend each other, we're a family. You're part of us now. And, like it or not, I'll always be behind you Ritchie. I-"  _

_ "God George stop! I get it you love me," he laughed loudly, his head shaking in glee, his blush vivid. Maybe he even snorted; he couldn't help it, he was so flustered and his heart had tripled in size since the beginning of George's speech. The guitarist grinned wildly, his eyes twinkled; his trick had worked.  _

_ He put his suit down, and motioned to his lap; George sat on it, legs closed on his, and his side leaning on Ringo. Two arms crawled around his neck, while his circled his waist. Fondness dripped from their eyes as they were smiling oh so lovingly at each other.  _

_ "You're a soft lad you know?"  _

_ Ringo got a soft kiss on his lips in response, then another one on the side of his mouth, then one on his chin, then these lips were back on his, again, and again, till he lost count of all the times they touched, they brushed; a long one, a short one; tender, love. He melted in those arms, never letting go of these lips, as George leaned closer and closer to him. They forgot everything around. The only thing he recalled was George whispering in his ear between their kiss:  _

_ "Welcome to the band."  _

_ *** _

It wasn't really about the gift, that memory, that soft, meaningful memory, covering his sleepy mind with its promises of joyful times. But it was unleashed through that suit. A suit, about them. Of an important day.

Ringo knew, right at this instant he knew, that he didn't need a fancy creative far-fetched and huge gift; something, little, dull, of no importance, was sufficient, as long as it represented them; when you would look at it, you would look at a piece of their love, of their past; a something that had a story to tell. A something that was worth to be written; a present worth of a story; a gift worth of their story. 

Whatever that something was, it would be the present Ringo needed. He would manage to get it. 

Ringo would find it. 

*** 

##  **23rd February 1988**

"Paul, I didn't find it." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe, tucked inside, stay strong, and dont push yourself to hard. It will be alright, and I hope this chapter cheered up your day a bit 💙


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! A life-changing phonecall with Paul, the last cute flashback with the answer to all Ringo's problem, and the most happiest ending ever, that will make you puke rainbows and melt in your seat. Or not if it's too sappy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter today ! It was a short ride. I dont know if everyone who gave this fic a shot liked it, but to the few people that wrote some lovely comments, I'd like to thank you once again ❤ Enjoy this new chapter, and if you can tell me what you thought !   
> And as always, dedicated to the lovely @deeblue

##  **23rd February 1988**

"Paul, I didn't find it." 

He had lied. Ringo was on the phone with Paul, because, now, he needed help. Tomorrow it was the day; it was looking to be the day of his failure. 

_ "What do you mean Ritch?" _

He sighed as he held the phone in his hand. Sitting on a sofa, covered in cushions, a steaming cup of tea on one of the armrest, a blanket loosely hanging on his legs; they were deep into winter, it was cold, and he couldn't warm up. The cord twirled around his fingers, just like the seconds slipping away; all the seconds he was wasting; trickling down like the knots of the cord. It was such a strange fascination, he almost forgot the crisis he was facing; till he was stopped on a tighter knot, and realized Paul was on the line. This aroused a storm of anxious emotions in him and he straightened as he spoke in a hurry. 

"I didn't find anything for George! And it's tomorrow- tomorrow! Paul what if I don't-"

_ "Ritch Ritch Ritchie. Calm down, breathe mate! It's alright," _ he could hear Paul's poorly hidden chuckle as he tried to relax him. He grumbled as he slumped back against the sofa.

" 'S not funny Paul," he pouted, dropping off the cord of the phone. 

They had just exchanged a few greetings before he had threw his problems at Paul. His savior of the hour. Or of the gift, more precisely.

Paul was probably worse than him at finding gifts when they had been younger; he had always gifted random things he found the exact day of John's birthday. How many time did John complain about it; every year he would remind everyone that, for his 21st birthday, Paul had just offered him a burger, while "I gave him Paris for my birthday!". But, as he got older, Paul came up with more and more heartfelt, thoughtful, passionate presents, surprising everyone by his memory and attention. Ringo was hoping for that right now. 

He let out a sigh, as he scooted his teacup near him, feeling the heat seeping through his skin. 

"What will you offer him?" 

_ "Well I already sent it by the mail. Wrote him a little something,"  _ he could hear the satisfied smirk in his voice.

"Oh? What is it about?" 

_ "Wouldn't you like to know,"  _ but he didn't tell him, only let him in his smug silence. Instead, he changed the subject back to their matter.  _ "So, haven't found anything?"  _

With a sip of his drink, the comforting heat settling deep inside him and further calming him; no drinks would make the anxiety flee from him. He raked a hand through his hair in exhaustion. Might as well explain it all to him. 

"I've tried Paul. Have found nothing. I thought of a vinyl, of gardening stuff; I had clothes ideas, plants; even thought of photos: Everything!" he raised his voice by the end of his sentence, then quickly lowered it again; it seemed he lost his force too. "I wanted to find something meaningful you know? About us, our story. Something, you know…" 

_ "To show him how much he meant to you," _ Paul filled up for him; so simple, yet so final; it was as if Paul knew exactly what he was talking about. Ringo nodded, then expressed it verbally to him. "Yes." 

There was a brief pause. He took another sip of his tea. Paul was now probably working some ideas for him, shutting himself in his bubble, where all his intuitions and memories connected, merged together, to form creations, thoughts, songs. Smart lad. As he waited, in his patience, Ringo drifted in his head, freely, looking at the window, at the frost on the grass, the grey clouds in the sky, the dead of the winter; he flew outside while his body remained inside, hanging on to Paul's stammers and growls; far away from this worry, going over England, landing in Friar Park, by George's side. Till he heard a squealing noise, happy and excited, followed by fumbling and more noise. In less than a minute, Paul had dropped the phone, took it back, and had yelled, in a jumble of words and stutters, a genius idea, that only he could understand, and that left Ringo blinking in incomprehension. Naturally, he asked him to repeat. A few moments for Paul to breathe, and declare, proudly, smugly: 

_ "A sunflower!" _

That was it. So just a flower then. Hum. Really now.

Maybe Paul wasn't as smart as he thought. He couldn't hide his disappointment, which he let him know; it was peculiar, to be so excited about a small common flower, as beautiful as it could be; but then again, it was what he was looking for. A groan answered him.

_ "Ringo!" _ Paul whined.  _ "Don't you remember what it means?"  _

"No I don't," he deadpanned, even though he was getting intrigued by Paul's interest. "It's a flower P-" 

_ "It's what you offered him when you asked him out the first time! On his birthday!"  _

Ringo had never gasped so loudly in his lifetime. Of course he remembered. 

"Oh my God Paul you genius!" 

This was exactly what George would love! It was the kind of meaningful present, representing them both; they had given each other many flowers throughout their relationship, but if there was one flower that meant the world to them, it was the one Ringo had gifted him, outside the Cavern, in Liverpool in 1961. At this instant, Ringo knew this was it. This was the present he was looking for. 

"Paul, are- are you sure he will remember?" 

_ "Hehe, of course he will. He has a better memory than us both, and we still remembered it! He will love it. You know how he had ran to me and yelled about it after? God the lad couldn't stand still!"  _

Ringo smiled fondly at the memory. Yes, it would work. The day, the moment, the present; everything had made them so happy, so together. He only needed to find the right one, for tomorrow. 

He let out an enormous breath of relief, as he plopped back on the cushions and closed his eyes. 

"Thank you Paul." 

_ "You're welcome Ritch."  _

And he hung up.

_ ***  _

##  **_24th February 1961_ **

_ "Thank you all for coming to the gig, hope you enjoyed it, goodnight Liddypool!"  _

_ Roars of laughter and applause exploded through the room at John Lennon's scream, the stage lighting up as the Beatles saluted the public of the Cavern. Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Pete Best, chuckling all together behind the band leader. He watched all of this; in the far end of the club, drinking a beer at the bar, fidgeting on his barstool; he waited, awkward, alone, for the members to get downstage, more precisely the guitarist: George, his, hopefully soon-to-be boyfriend. On his birthday.  _

_ Paul and him had been talking of this for so long now, they had it all planned; Paul had told him today was the boy's birthday, and they would play in the evening at the Cavern. The plan was simple; he had asked him to bring George, alone, near the door to the less crowded side of the club, at the back of the room, after the show; told him he had something important to tell him. Despite Paul's probing questions, he didn't reveal more, so the bassist gave up, accepted. The knowing smirk on his face still managed to make him uneasy. However, here he was, drumming repeatedly on his glass, as he waited for Paul to give him the signal he could join them there, and he could act out. But his awkwardness didn't waver, and his drumming drifted to the table, alternating with snaps, the rhythm unknown to him, but a soothing pattern to his restless thoughts. The bartender had glared at him twice; he had stopped twice; it was the third time he was starting it again. Whenever someone addressed him, he was replying with stutters and stammers, his tongue not forming any words, not creating sense. Where did bad frightening Ringo go? He was so far from the man the Beatles had feared.  _

_ Out of the blue a hand waved in the air at the back of the cavern. He stood up, slapping his money on the bar, and advanced through the crowd. He breathed heavily on the way, trying to relax. At one point, surrounded by cheering and dancing, an anxious thought crossed his mind; was "it" here? Halting his steps, not caring about the lad colliding with him from behind due to his sudden stop, he looked at the inside pocket of his black vest; he sighed in relief; it was there. Tapping one last time on the side of his vest once he hid it again, he walked to them. George started to appear in his vision; he was with Paul, right at the door, Paul talking animatedly to him, distracting him; George, who was clueless to it all, humoured him by listening. There was no one around them. On his way Ringo puffed out his chest, swallowed most of his fear back, avoided the people and strode to them. He was ready to talk to him; George too; he looked positively bored. When near enough, he called George's name. The lad spun around, saw Ringo, and grinned brightly; a high-pitched and happy "Hi Ringo!" came out of this smile, and Ringo felt his own lips twitch in answer. His heart gave out with a small greeting; his beaming face, his sweaty hair going in all directions, his leather jacket, too big for him, his excited stance whenever he'd see Ringo; those were all reasons that pushed him to go on with his plan, to assume and accept his own choice. Hope remained with him, and maybe George would feel like him; maybe he wasn't just an overexcited friend. Besides, he could not falter now, for he had decided that he wouldn't retract. _

_ Ignoring Paul's smug expression and twinkling eyes, he stopped in front of George, and went with all his boldness.  _

_ "Can we talk right now?"  _

_ George's smile dropped; Ringo was sad it did, but he could only wish to bring it back. An agreement was made, and George followed him outside, not before Paul winked at him – though he knew the bassist wouldn't be too far, surely wanting to listen to every word they'd say. He didn't really mind it; if this turned out for the worst, at least George had someone to support him and talk to; Ringo wouldn't –but would it matter since he would be the one afflicting this pain?  _

_ Night was settling down over the town; the Cavern was a shade darker, paler, as the blue from the sky engulfed the building. Light shone however through the dim yellow lamps around the door of the club, and the white floor glowed against the dark of the sky. The snow crunched up with the weight of their feet, flakes fell on their clothes, not too fast, freezing them both as they stopped their walk. No one was around, as Ringo had thought. No one would interrupt them. He faced him.  _

_ George looked cold; he wished he could warm in his arms. But it was too soon, or it was just a fleeting dream..  _

_ Not wanting to stay in an embarrassed silence, he tried to appear casual; not too close, not too far; talking of something apparently trivial and obvious, but that would lead him to his aim.  _

_ "I heard it's your birthday today."  _

_ At this single sentence, George's face lit up all over again. He was the perfect embodiment of a remaining innocence; tucking his hands in too large jacket pockets, he shrugged; the excited and eager joy his eyes expressed betrayed his rather cool stance; if you looked closely, you could see him bouncing lightly in happiness.  _

_ "Yes it is!" his joyful voice rang in the night. "That's what you wanted to talk about?"  _

_ He chuckled; he could draw this out for a bit; he needed to relax himself before it, and some light teasing could do the job. His confidence would be alive and thriving, and George's curiosity at its fullest.  _

_ "Mmh maybe… would you like that?"  _

_ The young guitarist threw his head back and laughed wholeheartedly. When he looked back, he was a stunning sight; his crinkled eyes sparkled with childish excitement, his white teeth flashed at him, open and welcoming, and his shifting from one foot to the other proved he could not stay in place; but his hair, his form, his clothes, the snow around him, and the yellow lamps gleaming against his skin, changed that innocent appearance to that of a beautiful young man, and Ringo could feel his face flush. Ringo was helplessly entranced by this beauty.  _

_ "Maybe?" George teased back, with a grin so bright it could shadow the snow. But his impatience got the best of him. "Got something for me then?"  _

_ George was as giddy as a kid on Christmas day, and seeing Ringo nod destroyed his feeble attempt at seeming detached. Ringo judged it was high time to do what he had wanted for so long.  _

_ "As a matter of fact…"  _

_ He drawled out, and grinned to himself as he saw George's eager shuffle. With one step forward, one step closer, he was at arms-length to George's waiting content mask. The present was heavy in his pocket. He had felt its weight till now, and separating himself from it was hard; it was from it that he drew his confidence and strength: now it was time to let it go, grow, and glow.  _

_ A hand slipped in his vest; George's curious gaze followed it. When he grabbed the present, he slowly extracted it. He freed it, and let it surface to the world; to George. In his left hand, he held forward a single yellow sunflower. _

_ The sunny petals contrasted with the dead winter around them; the simple plant, full of life, burned around the cold glow of the snow and the subdued light of the lamps. But dumbfounded was the reply he got. George's mouth fell open, eyebrows flew up to the sky. He took in a long breath and Ringo spoke:  _

_ "Would you go out with me tonight?"  _

_ Wind blew between them, hair flew, the chilling winter night froze the time as silence fell on those words. Were they shivering due to the cold, or due to those fleeting words? The sentence was in the air, rising to the clouds and the stars, while flakes fell on their noses. Did the sentence stopped at George's ears before disappearing? He hoped it did. His expression was made of stone; his shocked face of earlier had been carved, and was here to stay. All Ringo's carefully crafted confidence tumbled and crashed, the last remnants running away, but his trembling limbs wouldn't budge to get it back; he was left shivering with the cold and the doubt. Only the yellow sun between them both was strong in the face of such a tense yet blank moment. It was the last source of heat.  _

_ Ringo filled the void with his shuffled new words, contrary to the first ones, in their meek attempt to complete them.  _

_ "I-I mean, I haven't planned much, I-you know, I'm broke so… hehehe I'm sorry it wasn't a- Oof!" he was interrupted in his incoherent mumbling when George's body crushed his and his lungs were pressed to a warm chest. His body melted, just like his arms, around Ringo's smaller framed, a head falling in the crook of his neck, and Ringo was trapped, captured, by George's warmth. His heart missed a bit; missed two: right here, right then, outside the Cavern on a dark evening sky, he was exactly where he wanted to be.  _

_ George quickly pulled away, but the dream was not short-lived; George's was radiating with pure joy, and there was an unknown glint in his eyes, that was welcoming to Ringo's poor scared heart.  _

_ "Yes!" he cried out. "Oh God Ringo yes, of course I would love to!"  _

_ He was alive and happy, and this joy spread to Ringo, who was beaming back, his cheeks as red as his. Waves of love and laugh came crashing on their bodies, their emotions, their conscious, them; they loudly smashed against his ears, the violence of it making his veins burst with adrenaline. But in a flash it had been quelled and withdrew. The faint trace of it, the lingering touch of the feelings he had just experienced, of joy, shock, happiness, seemed to belong to a dream, for his eyes had blurred, white sparkles popping in a white fog that had covered his vision, and the warmth invading him had made his head feel dizzy and drained; it was surreal, to have such things when it was supposed to be dark.  _

_ The momentary cold from George's absence was gone when two hands clasped his. In a blink Ringo was back, to a reality he had never really left, for what he thought wasn't true, wasn't possible, had happened. George slowly extricated the sunflower from his fingers to get it in his, and he awoke. He drew in a sharp breath.  _

_ "I- really? Are you serious?"  _

_ "Of course I am! Ringo this is the best birthday gift ever!"  _

_ George looked fondly at the flower he had, as it gleamed in the light. They were so close now; if he stood on his tiptoes, a small step forward, he could touch these lips, grasp that chin, caress these cheeks, and nuzzle his neck. All those actions were too soon; yet he still lost himself in those fleeting glimpses of wants, and didn't notice he was stepping closer. The young guitarist was here, with his hair flying in the wind, flakes of snow landing on them, his joyful mask shining through the chilled dull atmosphere, and heating the snow at their feet. He was fascinated. _

_ Maybe something could have happened, maybe not; what happened though, was decided by George: he gasped in surprise, dropped those hands and pulled away. Not letting Ringo utter a single word, he yelled in shock: "Oh! I have to tell it to Paul!"  _

_ And he was off, sunflower in hand, Ringo all dumb and alone with his disbelief. However, his slow senses had no time to process everything before George turned around, and let his lips wander to Ringo's cheek to land a sweet brief kiss. He uttered a small, yet meaningful "Thank you", in his ear. Then he yelled Paul's name and ran off inside, while Ringo stood there, frozen, face flushed, flustered. A hand traveled to where he got kissed. He rubbed it, and smiled.  _

_ From where Ringo was he could hear the boys excited shouts. Guess he had made the right decision after all. The right present. He looked up at the falling snow and hummed as he waited for his… boyfriend? Should he call him boyfriend? He snorted at his eagerness to call George his. Maybe when it would be more. He hoped to make their bound deeper in Hamburg in march; he had so many dates ideas for that time.  _

_ The door closed, and Ringo watched George arriving. He was walking, still grinning, like a ray of sunshine in the blue night, eyes glittering with...fondness? Love? He didn't know. It would take him long to know.  _

_ But what he knew, is that for the whole night, George never let go of his sunflower.  _

_ *** _

##  **24th February 1988**

Close to the evening he had left his home in London, at a relatively late hour; he had grabbed his keys, started the engine, and driven on through miles and miles with doubts on his mind. When the sun would begin to set over the immense property of George, Friar Park, and it's house, he would arrive. And it would be the moment he had been waiting for, and prepared for, since the first of February 1988. 

Sometimes, his eyes gaze would drift off the road to steal a glimpse at the sunflower next to him, picked up at a local flower shop; his gardening talents were too poor to grow a sunflower in winter; it hadn't changed much since the first time. It was a plain simple flower, rustic, from the country; not a luscious red rose, or a delicate and tender lilac; an innocent happy yellow, enough to make people's day and bring joy to their heart. This was what George's smile did to him; it would warm him everytime he could get a glimpse of it, and light the rest of his most somber days. While Ringo was a mellow sun, like a sunset or a sunrise, slow and easy, comforting, George's was vibrant and at peace. Especially when young. Even if he softened with the years, and serenity gained his soul, his heart was still as positive and warm as the sun. The sun Ringo loved. So when he approached the house, he couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from lifting up at the flower. It meant so much to them. It was their present. 

He got near the black tall gates of the portal, protected by a guard. He had called George earlier to wish him a happy birthday –to which he had laughed and said "don't forget to wish it tomorrow too!"– and asked if he could come and visit today already. They were expected to celebrate tomorrow with a few people. He had planned something in the end. George preferred to keep his 45's birthday private: there would be Paul and Linda with their children, his son Dhani, Bob Dylan and Tom Petty, and maybe some others Ringo forgot; knowing George, not much more. But, even with this close committee, Ringo felt more confident delivering his gift alone; they wouldn't understand; most of them didn't know about them. Only Paul knew –George, although not as close to him as before, still gushed over Ringo to Paul when they got together again– and probably the whole McCartney clan. While George could be a loving man in public, hugging and greeting him warmly, Ringo would rather keep their moments to themselves. To him, it was essential he had George all for himself for his present; especially if George had forgotten what was its meaning, or wasn't looking so pleased with it; Ringo would rather be ashamed on his own. 

He stopped in front of the garage. Inhale, exhale. He had to calm himself. It was just a present. A present he had been thinking of for weeks. A present for the love of his life, that he had just gotten back. It wasn't so bad if it didn't turn out to make their relationship grow, and if George didn't like it. He glanced back at the flower again. An audible gulp was heard. Divided between anxious and sure thoughts, he was torn into pieces. He didn't know if this would bring a smile to George's face. 

How long did he wait? That no one knew. But he must have slapped himself out of this torpor, for he, on the spur of the moment, grabbed the sunflower, got out, smacked the car door closed, and walked blindly to the entrance. His decision was made. He could see the white doors coming nearer. Nearer. A step more. He stopped. He was there. Knocking once. Nothing. Knocking twice, louder. Still nothing. George was not there. 

Desperation rushed through him, concern waiting at George's door, he knocked again and again in a blur; a paper dove to his feet from the door. He had not noticed, lost on his first focus, which was trying to get the door to open, that a paper had been stuck on it. Lowering himself to the ground, his warm wool coat brushing his cheek, he reached out to it. As he read on, he let go of a breath he didn't knew he was holding; it was simply written "Join me at the terrace". Ringo's tense shoulders sagged as he could smile again.It didn't surprise him that George would be there. The terrace was surrounded with flowers bushes and various plants, a thin purple curtains could be closed around to keep the warmth inside, while remaining outside, but knowing George, those would be opened. It was just a small stroll around the house. Before going, he tried to make himself a bit more presentable, but it was in vain; he had made a foolish attempt before going to dress fancy and smart, but the sudden cold that had attacked his body when he had stepped out changed his mind, and his outfit: and here he was with a red pullover and comfy dark pants over his coat, and boots on. He, at least, combed his hair with his hand one last time, took off his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. Then he was on his way. 

As he approached the terrace, he could see exactly what he expected; George was sitting cross-legged on the chestnut rattan couch, tall white cushions propping his back, as he played his ukulele for the sunset. Candles were all around the terrace, prepared to be lighted, some already were, and casted a warm glow on the few furniture of the white terrace, notably one on a small table next to the couch, spreading its light to George's face. The petals colors around the place were radiating soft pastels cloud, white, blue and purple, adding to the warm glow, like an impressionist painting of the past century. From all those colors a melody emerged, as fingers slid over the strings of the wooden instrument. The wood contrasted with the woolen beige poncho he wore, white long sleeves tugging out of it. The beige rested on the brown of his pants. His feet, protected by fuzzy socks, were moving in an invisible rhythm, tapping on his legs. He looked calm, serene, at peace around the green of the garden and the opened curtains. Each branches and each leaves waved with the light wind, but none reached the inside of the terrace. It was a sight from a reverie, that he had been building for the last three weeks, just in front of him. Only two footsteps and he'd arrive. He was so close to the chords, high and melodious, drifting to the sunset behind him. He stepped in the terrace, brushing the curtains with his fingertips, and a whole sense of peacefulness engulfed him.

The sound of his entrance snapped George up from his music-induced trance; he looked up, saw Ringo, and flashed him a toothy smile, with a content and rested "Hi Ringo".

By pure reflex, with no thinking whatsoever, Ringo patted his coat, to check on the flower's presence, and to draw comfort from it. But his actions received a confused expression, as George caught a glimpse of it. He stopped in front of the couch, not yet joining George's side, but staying up and facing him. Before he could utter a single word, George cut him with a single chuckle, resting his hand on the top if his instrument. 

"You did get me something, didn't you?"

The knowing smirk he had plastered on his face proved to Ringo that he had been caught. So much for a surprise. Ringo's lips dropped into a pout. He couldn't see how George had guessed. But once again, he rolled with it, trying not to lose his strength and fragile confidence. 

"Don't know why you're thinking that," George arched up a brow. "But you're right I did." 

Shaking his head as he chuckled once again, he took his ukulele and bent down, putting it back in a small case on the floor, next to the couch. With his calm aura he straightened and his wavy shoulder-length hair flopped down. His smirk was still present, but the corners of his mouth were twitching with fondness. 

"I told you you didn't have to." 

"Don't worry, it's nothing big," he lamely tried to play it cool, as he shrugged it off. 

"Oh really?" he replied, and Ringo wanted to wipe that widening smirk off his face. He looked so playful and knowing. Why did this man tease him like that? "I doubt it. Did you not get me anything fancy then?" 

Then with no warning, his mind alerted him it was the perfect occasion to throw George off guard. Clearly, George was not expecting a gift like that. Ringo usually offered ridiculous expensive and spur of the moment presents. And George always guessed them. But this one, he wouldn't –unless Paul had betrayed him. Ringo, satisfied, let his own smug smirk be shown. 

"Nope, it's something cheap. And unexpected." 

Finally George looked surprised. He shifted in his seat, then uncrossed his legs, and settled down. His interest had been caught. In his eyes there was a spark of childish excitement coming from deep within his soul, well hidden but present and vivid. It had been addressed. Eagerness was slowly building up. 

"Well then," he attempted to sound nonchalant, but was as useless at it as Ringo was with keeping his confidence. "Show me what it is," and tapped on his pressed knees. 

So it was now. How would he do it? Should he kneel in front of him? Or stay up? Sit next to him? Should he make a funny speech? An emotional one? Give it without a word? Those were the questions running through his head when he had been driving till here. But, standing in front of George's beauty and whole calmness, he knew all the answers to them; he knew how he would do this. He just, needed to breathe, one last time. Inhale. Exhale. 

He met George's eyes; he didn't take his hands, didn't came closer, didn't make any physical contact; it was not yet; but stayed solemn, brows furrowed in concentration, as if he was doing this all over again; as if he was asking his lover on a date a second time; as if he was asking for his hand, if only he was allowed to. 

"George," he prepared. 

"Yes?" he had his attention, his wide eyes as happy as it had been then but more mature and calmer. 

"You know we've been together for a long time; since the beginning of the Beatles, we practically lived most of our life together," he summed up, and George nodded. "And, I'm grateful. I wanted to thank you for making our love whole again." 

George smiled at him, but let him continue. That was one of the greatest things about George; his patience; he would always let someone talk, let them finish; never interrupt, never leave; he was all ears to them, and would stay there and listen. So few people could listen. 

"This birthday is special for us George. Because we're finally back together, after all this time." 

He stopped, letting a small moment for George to process it all, and for his heart to open up. Swallowed. Straightened. Still.

"We've known each other for thirty years. In those thirty years, we've loved each other for fifteen years. Of course we had our ups and downs, we lost each other; but here we are. We're still here, together." he felt his eyes sting as his emotions were pouring out, but his voice never wavered. "Today marks those fifteen years." 

His legs were shaking due to his emotions and nervousness; George felt his struggle and took one of his hands in his. He shot him an encouraging smile, and the warmth he felt from it gave him enough strength to grasp it back. His other hand however sneaked in his vest. He had to finish this quickly, for his fight against his tears was a lost cause, and George's were already watering. 

"Today, I have nothing to offer you, except the memory of how this all started… Here, all I'm offering is the proof of how much you mean to me." 

George tried to rub his wet eyes with his hand; Ringo didn't let him do it. He tightened his hold and George gave up, staring back at him. For a moment, Ringo lost himself in him; his eyes were shining and sparkling; the rays of sunset were engulfing the terrace, passing through the curtains, and making the shape of George's face soften and glow. He could have stared for so long, but he had to move on. To the end. 

"So today," he said. "I'm asking you again," he took the sunflower out of his coat. The moment it got in front of George, his eyes flashed in recognition, and his jaw dropped slack. Ringo swallowed all fear back a second time. 

"Would you still go out with me?" 

The yellow sun was gleaming between them: the delicateness of its petals, the fragility of the sentence, of the flower, yet its straightness and strength, was a comfort disguised in innocence in that small second of silence and doubt. The lightness of things and the brittleness of his feelings were floating around the room, harmonized with the soft glow inside, but darkening the edges. Only the sunflower wasn't blurry, wasn't moving, was still here, strong in his hands; George and Ringo were wavering and shaking with the sentence and the words, the colors and glows, but not the flower; not their flower. 

Ringo, with his blurred blue eyes, adjusted to the rush of emotions the sentence lashed out in the room, and were stable enough to get a glimpse at George.

Nothing came from these closed eyes, the uttered words having shut him away in his own space. Then he was back; with a shocked gasp, tears glistened in his eyes. Ringo didn't understand. He was about to drop the flower and rush to his side; George was faster: two arms circled his neck, two legs around his waist, two lips on his mouth. His arm shot up, catching him and steadying him, the flower fell on the floor; his pupils dilated, till he was trapped in the kiss and he melted; one of his hand crawled up and twisted in George's hair, the other holding his legs, and he brought him closer, nearer, for more, more and more. He moved his lips on his, and he stopped thinking. They were deep in their kiss, deep in their love, moving in unison, cheeks pressed together, noses colliding, hands travelling, touching, tightening, loving; they roamed free of control. It all exploded in a million of sparkles, but was short-lived; a minute, two, it seemed so fast; and they let go; no longer in a tight embrace; George's feet touched the ground, his hands sliding to Ringo's shoulders, and he breathed on his face. Tears had fallen from his cheeks, so his fingers had brushed any remaining off, before resting back on his waist. Ringo opened his eyes and admired George's closed ones. Then George's mouth moved, fighting his ragged breathing, and Ringo listened. 

"This is the best birthday gift ever."

Then he opened them, and they smiled fondly at each other; George remembered; it was exactly what he had said that day. 

Their foreheads gently tickled before they rested together. All their affection went through a look and a smile, and George lightly brushed Ringo's nose with his, making the smaller drummer duck his chin in his chest. 

"Of course I would Ringo, a million times," he said as he shook his head, making their noses touch again and again. "You remembered, oh Lord. And you made me remember," he stopped to give his nose a brief kiss. "Thank you." 

He was going to reply, when arms sneaked around his waist too. George let himself fall on the couch, and he brought Ringo with him, who shrieked, then laughed as he landed on top of George's chest. George joined him in his laughter as he laid there, and while an arm stayed on the drummer, he took the flower off the floor, and back to them. 

They sighed in contentment, Ringo's head dropping on his torso, all the worries and nervousness of the weeks till that moment leaving him limp in these arms. He felt gentle slow strokes on his hair, and let himself relax. The room was so calm, and the relief coursing through his veins so soothing, he never wanted to move, to leave this place, to return to before; the heartbeats of George were a new rhythm in the room, and Ringo wished to know all its patterns. He suddenly felt so close to George, his body couldn't get closer, their hearts couldn't beat at a different pace, their mind couldn't be more fused. The present had brought them closer.

However, Ringo's nagging thoughts reminded him it would only be for a moment, and they would be far again. He shut his eyes, letting the thought away, and focused solely on the strokes on his head. 

He could have fallen asleep, if George hadn't broken the silence, with a meaningless question. 

"Could you stay here Ringo?"

Ringo blinked stupidly, looked back up, slightly lifting the upper part of his body with his arms. Trying to think of any hidden meaning, he was confused to find none. He answered blankly. 

"Well of course I am. I'm not going to leave on your birthday." 

"No that's not what I meant," George said, as he twirled the flower around. He seemed to muse on it. Then he extended the flower to his face. "Would you live here with me Ritchie?" 

It was Ringo's turn to feel a rush of emotions that made his eyes stings so hard he shed a tear at George's question, his mouth agape. It was what he had hoped for. It was how he dreamt their relationship to grow. He beamed, not believing these words yet accepting them fully, and practically yelled: "Yes! I would George, yes!" Then he giggled as he saw George's smile get wider and felt his arm drag him closer to him; they kissed and hugged, the flower laid next to their bodies. The joy and happiness flooding the terrace overwhelmed them, and they got dizzy with its power, but together and whole. They movements got frantic, happier, clothes off, aching to be closer. They lost himself in each other, and this time didn't separate till they were fully together and night was settled on them. 

Stars shone in the skies, the chilling winter cold of the dark hours slipping through the room, but not attaining them, for they were covered by a thick warm blanket, and their arms holding on tight. They felt too good to move, too tired to close the curtains, and remained where they were. The moon rose behind their garden, their home. A whisper resonated through the terrace, a trembling yet fond "I love you" –and they fell asleep in each other's arms. 

*** 

In March 1988, George Harrison is being interviewed for his new album, "Cloud 9" by Aspel. But this interview is special, and he doesn't mind any questions, any people this time. Soon, he is joined by Ringo Starr, who is interviewed too. They shake hands. They share a smile. They talk a bit and answer a few questions. Till they feel ready. A nod, and suddenly they catch everyone's attention, the whole world's attention. They grasp each other's hand, between their seats. A look at each other again, then a look at the camera. And here, they announce in 1988: "We're together." 

(Everyone can hear the whole McCartney clan cheering in the audience).

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finished ! I hope you all enjoyed! Please leave a like or comment if you liked^^   
> And as always, stay safe during the quarantine. Stay with your loved ones, and don't overstress yourself, focus in your health and on yourself. Be easy on yourself, it's the most important. Because you are great 💙

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, likes, only if you like. Thanks for reading!  
> And stay safe in those harsh times. We all gotta stay strong and stick together!


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